


Oversight

by Sheepnamedpig



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Chess Metaphors, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>over·sight<br/><em>noun</em><br/>\ˈō-vər-ˌsīt\</p><p>1<br/>a: watchful and responsible care<br/>b: regulatory supervision</p><p>2<br/>a: an inadvertent omission or error</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oversight

**Author's Note:**

> Best read post 4.05. Set in a hypothetical late season 4.

"Is this seat taken?"

Finch’s spine goes rigid. His hand drifts from the edge of the table to alight on the seam of his coat pocket, the weight of the private network phone an uncertain salvation.

He tips back on the park bench, eyes Greer, and gestures for him to sit on the bench opposite.

His hands are perfectly steady, brow dry, New York City’s bustle humming along all around the bubble of their park table and untouched chess set.

"Black or white?" Greer asks mildly.

A thousand worlds of symbolism wash through Finch’s mind like a wave, breaking and retreating.

"Black."

Greer’s mouth pulls at one corner, wrinkles, amused. He moves a white pawn forward two spaces.

"Lovely day for a chess match, wouldn’t you say?" Greer asks. His body language is idle but his eyes are as weighty as a thousand surveillance cameras. It is, perhaps, the same weight the deer feels when it looks down the barrel of the hunter’s rifle.

Finch makes a noncommittal sound. He jumps his knight over the line of pawns. Greer’s mouth wrinkles again. He moves another pawn forward.

"Tell me about yourself," Greer says.

"I’m a really private person," Finch answers. John would smile, slight and wry, but Greer’s mouth is still.

"Make an exception. I’ve had a bit of a bad week at work and could use a distraction." He leans forward, planting his forearms on the table. "You seem like you might teach. Fascinating profession, teaching."

Finch does not cower. He moves his second knight into play. “I do.”

"What age?"

"College," Finch answers. John would berate him, would turn Finch’s own words back on him, words of caution and fear. And yet if Greer is here what left is there for Finch to hide?

"Ah, molding the minds of young adults. It must be very different from teaching younger children."

Finch glances up at Greer, then back at the board. He takes a white pawn with his knight. “I wouldn’t know.”

"No children of your own?"

Finch hesitates. His automatic ‘no’ comes out as a “Not as such.”

"Same," Greer says. He leans his cheek on the heel of one hand, which causes his suit coat to bunch awkwardly, making him look smaller and less intimidating. "I find myself relieved however, for it must be such a heavy burden to create new life and educate it in the ways of the world."

A white pawn threatens a black knight. Finch immediately moves it to safety.

"As I understand it, the best way is to start early, from birth, with the usual platitudes. Do not hit. Share. Be nice."

"Indoctrination in the social mores," Greer says. "Essential tools for conforming to the community."

"Teaching a child to care about others is an investment toward the future stability of society. A body of people who do not care or trust one another cannot act cohesively."

Greer’s mouth wrinkles. “And what of a child who is never taught?”

A knight is again in jeopardy; Finch sends his rook to remove the threat.

"A child who is never taught will still learn, even if it is just the methods by which it may survive."

"A useful lesson, at least."

"Generally, but dangerous if left untempered. Survival has motivated more than one person into harming another. A child who never learns to value others may not understand that there are lines not to be crossed."

Finch looks up from the board, over the frames of his glasses to the blurry lines of Greer’s face. Greer’s mouth does not wrinkle, but he leans back in his seat, idly spinning a captured bishop.

"Did you read the article about Julia Bennet in the Times yesterday? Such a sad story."

"Quite," Finch says.

"A talented young woman, scant weeks from graduating Summa Cum Laude with a Bachelor’s degree in programming took her own life for seemingly no reason. A genuine tragedy. As a hobby she would tweak the AIs of non-player characters in computer games to make them more realistic."

Greer moves the white queen out to the center of the board, easily in range of several of Finch’s pieces.

"I am saddened," Greer continues, "by the loss of an innocent. I am also frightened of whatever it is that could have driven such a promising young woman to commit suicide. One stranger to another, what do you think?"

Finch considers the white queen on the board, utterly vulnerable, straddling the divide between white and black. He considers children who have learned care and children who have learned only survival. He considers fear and bravery, risk and reward.

"I think that there are forces at work in this world that are beyond comprehension and prediction. But if you would like to continue this discussion," Finch draws a slightly foxed business card from his wallet and presents it to Greer. In stark Times New Roman, it reads _Harold Whistler._ "If you would like to continue this discussion, you can reach me by email."

Greer’s mouth wrinkles. His weighty gaze releases Finch to hone in on the slip of card stock. “I look forward to our correspondence.”

Finch nods stiffly and starts mapping contingencies. “As do I.”


End file.
